


Three for joy

by myhamsterisademon



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers Series - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhamsterisademon/pseuds/myhamsterisademon
Summary: The first time they fuck, d’Artagnan’s twenty one years old. It happens little after their second duel, when they are both drunk and their senses clouded by the damp, hot air of the late Parisian summer.
Relationships: d'Artagnan/Comte de Rochefort
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	Three for joy

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask me the meaning of the title, the line is borrowed from the popular nursery rhyme (where it goes "two for joy" and not "three").  
> I needed something that would carry enough ~symbolism~ but that wasn't glaringly obvious, and also apparently "joy" can be interpreted as an euphemism for *coughcough* sex *coughcough*, so there, double symbolism.  
> Please ignore my meaningless lucubration. English isn't my first language, feel free to shout out for any mistakes! <3 Enjoy the porn!

The first time they fuck, d’Artagnan’s twenty one years old. It happens little after their second duel, when they are both drunk and their senses clouded by the damp, hot air of the late Parisian summer.  
  
D’Artagnan’s heart aches with loneliness; he misses Constance, he misses his friends, but most of all he misses Athos and the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, the light in his eyes. He has no appetite for duels, tonight, only for wine (he shakes his head at the irony of the situation. Does he long for Athos so much that he wants to become like him, a sodden, drunken melancholic shadow of a man?) – which is why he barely growls an insult and glares menacingly when, upon entering his usual tavern, Rochefort greets him with a cheerfully inebriated _son of a whore!_  
  
The whole inn is, of course, astonished by the absence of the expected reaction – Rochefort himself seems slightly disappointed.  
  
“Why, young man, is something amiss? Or is your honourable mother truly a whore?” he asks, walking over to d’Artagnan’s table. The lad cannot tell if the concern in his voice is genuine: Rochefort is far too drunk to show any sincere emotion and, in any case, it wouldn't matter. It doesn't matter.  
  
“You are drunk, Rochefort. If you wish to duel, you shall have to wait until tomorrow. I will not kill a man unable to defend himself,” d’Artagnan bites back, hoping that will be enough to dissuade the other man.  
  
There is a short silence, then, while Rochefort stares at him and takes a long swig from the bottle of wine. The tavern buzzes around them, and suddenly Rochefort speaks again:  
  
“Come, Lieutenant. I shall help you cure your unhappiness and the walk shall sober me up, and then we will draw swords again, if you wish it so.”  
  
D’Artagnan doesn’t know what pushes him to accept the stretched hand – all he knows is that an hour later, he’s in Rochefort’s quarters, bent at the waist on a wooden table, with two oiled fingers inside him and a hand at his cock.  
  
He grits his teeth at the sudden pleasure of Rochefort twisting his fingers again, pants heavily, his hands gripping the table so tight his knuckles are completely white. It’s so different and so strange, he thinks, there is no love and no affection in this quick, rough fuck, they both know Rochefort is doing this, stretching him, only because he considers it a courtesy between two gentlemen – it is so different from the way it used to be with Athos and it is _good_.  
  
Athos would lay him down, sweet and loving, and would take his time sucking and jerking him off, would take his time fucking him slow and steady, would kiss his lips and call him _pretty_ , call him _good boy_ and would whisper to him filthy encouragement.  
  
Rochefort does none of these things, he keeps him down with a hand at his back (d’Artagnan moans at the pressure, at the way those calloused fingers, that moments before were twisting inside him, rub against the nape of his neck, wet with oil) -- and Rochefort finally, _finally_ starts fucking him properly, hard and fast and needy, without a sound except the occasional grunt and curse. D’Artagnan sobs at the strong thrusts, moans and shakes and whines whenever Rochefort hits his sweet spot.  
  
It is hard and unforgiving fuck, the hand that is still gripping his cock refuses to move, to stroke him, the other one still keeping him down, refusing to let him move – and _God_ is it good, it’s just what he needs, it’s exactly what he needs to keep him grounded as Rochefort fucks into him, hard enough to shove him and the table forward – and then he finally starts touching him properly, stroking his cock in time with his thrusts and it isn’t long before he finally starts coming, shaking under the older man’s hands and trembling against him as he fucks him through it.  
  
“This is not what I was expecting when you proposed to draw out our swords,” d’Artagnan pants heavily when Rochefort has given one last shove and then spilled inside him. Rochefort, for the first but not the last time since they have met, barks out a sincerely amused laugh.  
  
The last time it happens, d’Artagnan is almost fourty. They’re both tired old men, but the bitterness and rivalry between them has left place to something that borders on mutual respect and admiration, if not friendship.  
  
They sneak into a hidden corridor in the palace (one of the corridors that Rochefort used many times during his years of splendour with the former Cardinal Richelieul).  
  
“We haven’t got much time,” d’Artagnan murmurs. “The Cardinal shall want you soon.”  
  
“Better be quick, then,” Rochefort answers and shoves d’Artagnan against the wall. The Musketeer, for a second, feels a flash of anger coursing through him, the return of their antique hatred and he fights back, for a brief moment, just for old times’ sake – but the knowing smirk on Rochefort’s face reminds him of all the time he sank to his knees in front of him and of all the pleasure he got from it, and he knows there is no need to pretend that he hasn’t missed it, to be taken and shoved around and used.  
  
He wants it, he’s already hard in his trousers (he's been for the last fifteen minutes since Rochefort has whispered in his ear what he wanted to do to him, in excruciating detail), so he doesn’t complain when Rochefort pins his hands above his head. The older man unbuckles his trousers, shoves his free hand inside them and the moment he begins to stroke his cock, d’Artagnan starts whimpering.  
  
It’s just like it used to be, d’Artagnan thinks, hard and unforgiving and purposeful: no love and no preliminaries, just this – pure, raw pleasure – the rough, callused hand touching him, jerking him off quick and hard and it’s dry, a bit too dry, but he’s already leaking so it will stop being a problem soon enough –  
  
“You missed this?” Rochefort breathes into his ear, and he’s close to d’Artagnan’s side, now, and he can feel the man’s hard cock against his own hip, where he can’t help but rut against.  
  
D’Artagnan doesn’t answer, too focused on the way that damned hand palms and strokes and holds him – he can feel the pleasure at the base of his belly, boiling up quick and hot –  
  
“Quicker,” he spits through gritted teeth, and Rochefort complies, laughing, and it’s that laugh which, for some reason, sends him over the edge.  
  
He comes, so hard his vision whitens for a moment, gasping for breath.  
  
“Jesus fuck,” he says.  
  
Rochefort laughs again.  
  
“If we ever meet again,” he says with a grin, “I’ll fuck you in the carriage.”


End file.
